


Unread Thoughts

by ConnorRK



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, MerMay, Non-Human Genitalia, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Torture, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-05-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:46:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24167572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConnorRK/pseuds/ConnorRK
Summary: He has, for the longest time, secretly considered Hank his mate. He knows that Hank feels some attraction to him, in return. His superior senses have picked up on the subtle signs that betray Hank’s feelings. The racing of his heart when Connor touches him or swims close, or the scent of excitement when he watches Connor lay on the dock. But he’s never acted on it, and Connor has restrained himself in a similar manner, unsure of why Hank holds himself back but unable to bridge that gap for fear of finding out.
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 7
Kudos: 219





	Unread Thoughts

**Author's Note:**

> Happy MerMay! This short, porny fic is set in the same universe as the short one shot I submitted for the fanzine [Deep: A HankCon MerMay Anthology.](https://twitter.com/HankConMerms/status/1258014139173257219?s=20) It features lots of great artists and fics and is available now! While the fic I submitted for it contains the auspicious beginnings of our boys, their first meeting, this is pure merfucking set much later after their first meeting, though I don't think reading that is required to understand this.
> 
> Please read the tags carefully! Though the fic in the zine contains references to Connor's past, this fic is a little more explicit about what I had in mind. Despite that, this is pretty cheesy and fluffy imo lmfao. A lot of this and the other fic are inspired by RPs I've done with my cohort LtProlapse, so I owe a lot of thanks to her for all the inspiration! Please enjoy :)

It’s been so long since he felt it coming on, he doesn’t know what it is at first. It’s—a fuzzy feeling deep in his stomach, warming him. It’s a sudden desire for Hank to hurry home. He floats under the boathouse in the cool waters, his whole body buzzing, his hands twitching in want of something. He finds a shell to toy with like an otter, but it does nothing to distract, and before long he discards it, letting it sink gently to the silt below.

He tries to ignore the feeling as it swells like a bubble, pressing on his body from the inside, searching for an opening. It’s an annoyance. It must be restlessness, or boredom. He thinks about going up and entertaining himself with the things Hank leaves for him, but the thought is unsatisfying so he doesn’t bother. He wants…

He doesn’t know what he wants, except for Hank to be quick.

It takes all day—his human at work, which Connor understands but finds frivolous—before he hears the distant sound of Hank’s car. Connor could swim to the shore and catch Hank’s attention, and the impatient part of him nearly demands it, but he restrains himself, coming up to the surface to grab the edge of the dock inside the boathouse and watch the door.

The right boat launch houses Hank’s small motorboat, but the left is clear for Connor’s use. There are small trinkets lining this side of the launch, things that Hank has brought out to decorate and make it feel more comfortable, or for Connor’s entertainment—puzzle toys, paperbacks, a towel to dry Connor’s hands, framed pictures that Hank took of them and of the ocean, board games that are soggy but still playable, among other things. Most within easy reach, though in no danger of falling into the water.

There are a few blankets and a pillow near the edge of the launch, where Hank has been spending his nights more and more often. Connor knows it can’t be good for the man’s body, as he often complains of aches and pains when he wakes, but selfishly Connor doesn’t want the man to return to his house. He enjoys talking to Hank late into the night, the man’s hand dangling over the edge and skimming the water. Enjoys his company even when they don’t talk much, and Hank reads with his feet in the water while Connor lies on the dock next to him and pretends to sleep.

It’s really so he can feel Hank’s hand in his hair, brushing it back from his forehead. So he can be close to the man’s warmth without Hank pulling away in embarrassment. Sometimes Hank’s fingers trace the scars that run the length of his arms, around the gills on his neck, or in thin lines down his chest, and he has to hold in a shiver, but it’s not bad. It makes him feel good, that Hank sees those parts and isn’t repulsed.

He doesn’t like touching them himself. He prefers not to think of the lines connecting his shoulders and his pelvis to his sternum. If he thinks on them too long, his mind swims deeper into memories of gloved, unyielding hands strapping his arms and tail to the cold metal table. The bright, hot circle of light in his face, a miniature sun blinding him. A prick against his arm that makes his muscles go lax. Masked faces bending over his torso and talking among themselves, fire running down his skin as he’s opened up and peeled back.

He shakes his head, hard, and for once the thoughts don’t linger in a heavy cloud, but disperse. His mind turns to Hank easily. He taps the deck with his fingers, wishing he hadn’t tossed the shell aside so he could have something to do with his hands again, as unsatisfying as it would be.

He has, for the longest time, secretly considered Hank his mate. He knows that Hank feels some attraction to him, in return. His superior senses have picked up on the subtle signs that betray Hank’s feelings. The racing of his heart when Connor touches him or swims close, or the scent of excitement when he watches Connor lay on the dock. But he’s never acted on it, and Connor has restrained himself in a similar manner, unsure of why Hank holds himself back but unable to bridge that gap for fear of finding out.

Maybe because they are a different species. Maybe because Hank does not consider him romantically favorable. Maybe for some other reason, such as Connor’s past, and the labs he came from.

But despite that, Hank treats him in a way that Connor can only assume is mate-like. Caring for his well-being, sleeping close by at night, gentle touches when he thinks Connor is unaware.

Connor knows that he’ll never consider anyone else the way he does Hank. The human is the only mate for him, whether the man knows it or not. It makes his heart pound. 

He feels so hot, and he chirps impatiently. Hank usually goes to the house at the top of the long stretch of sand and grass behind the boathouse, to change and make them dinner. Though Connor could just as well eat the fish, lobster—or the other seafood dishes Hank makes—raw, it’s not the same as the carefully made meals Hank brings out for them to share.

It shows a level of care that Connor wasn’t used to, before, when the men in white coats would toss ground up, frozen fish into his tank once a day. Hank takes his time, and sits with Connor as they share a meal. Connor’s never met another mated pair of merfolks himself, but he likes to imagine that what he and Hank have must be similar.

Right now, however, he hopes the man can somehow sense his impatience as he projects it across his open link. Though humans aren’t capable of that kind of communication, it would be very convenient if Hank suddenly developed the ability. He wants to skip the meal and go straight for their nightly swim. He wants Hank in the water with him, close enough to touch. The hair on the back of his neck stands up.

His hopes are not answered. It takes far too long for the door to the boathouse to creak open and for Hank to step inside carrying two covered dishes, one balance between his forearm and chest as he shuts the door behind. He’s changed from his work attire, into a plain tshirt and tan shorts, as he always does when he comes to the boathouse, prepared to swim. His bare feet creak on the dark brown wood.

“Hey, Connor,” Hank says, and Connor chirps in greeting, a birdlike sound that makes Hank smile every time. Seeing the lift of Hank’s lips beneath his gray beard has Connor inhaling deeply, a flutter in his chest.

“Hank. Come here. Into the water,” Connor says quickly, swimming around to the ladder Hank had installed long ago, when he first allowed Connor to make this place his home.

“Well, hold on, I just made dinner. Aren’t you hungry?” Hank asks, setting the plates on the edge of the dock. He flicks on a camping lantern, illuminating them both in a buttery yellow light, setting it down next to the plates before taking a seat himself, water lapping up his calves. “Come on, I made your favorite.”

Despite the delicious smell that fills the boathouse when Hank lifts the foil from the plate, Connor barely takes note. He swims up to Hank’s bare legs where they hang over the side. The shorts ride up Hank’s thick, muscled thighs. His shirt is no better, a soft gray t shirt that stretches over his barrel-like chest and squeezes Hank’s biceps. He breaths in, gills opening along his neck, taking in everything he can about the man. None of it feels like enough. He needs Hank everywhere, around him,  _ inside  _ him.

_ Oh _ , Connor thinks, feeling his slit relaxing and opening. He’s in rut.

“Connor?” Hank asks, and Connor manages to tear his eyes away from Hank’s chest. “What’s up? You alright?” His deep voice is so concerned and caring. A slick heat gathers in Connor’s slit, and he swallows thickly.

He hasn’t been in a rut in years. Not since his first, in the labs, with the men in their white coats, studying him as he shivered and shook through something he didn’t understand. Until they pulled him from the tank and told him they were  _ helping _ as they shucked their clothes and showed him what it meant.

It had been his first, and his only rut. They speculated in the months and years since, with a certain disappointment in their tones, that it must be the stress of their experimentation which caused Connor not to experience them anymore. It left him both relieved and bitter, that he wouldn’t have to deal with that again, and yet that his body was once more so easily changed at their hands.

“I’m fine, Hank,” he manages, hands rising of their own accord, gripping the tops of Hank’s thighs. He doesn’t want to think of them right now. Right now, he’s with Hank, and somehow that’s enough to push those thoughts aside. Hank is like the alcohol he’s so fond of, clouding Connor’s thoughts, making it hard to focus on little else. He’s thankful for it.

“What are you doing there, buddy?” Hank asks, with a nervous laugh, grunting as Connor hauls himself up. His hands come up, as if to grab Connor and steady him, and then lower again without touching him. A surge of irritation fills Connor.

“I need you. To get. In the water,” Connor says haltingly. It’s somehow hard to speak, with Hank only inches away. Why isn’t Hank already on him? Can’t he smell the heat leaking from Connor’s body?

Hank’s only human, he reminds himself. He doesn’t experience the world as Connor does. He can’t sense like Connor can the sudden sweat of anxiety pouring off Hank, or see the dilation of his pupils in the dimness. 

“Why? What’s going on?” Hank asks, as Connor wraps an arm around his waist to anchor himself, head bowing.

Connor’s too impatient for words now, annoyed by the fact that he can’t touch Hank’s mind, as merfolk can with each other, to share his intent. Instead he just chirps flatly, using his other hand to find the front of Hank’s pants, tearing at the button and fly.

“Connor!” Hank shouts, and his foot presses against Connor’s stomach, as if to push him away, but Connor clings tight to the man’s waist. A hand grips his, stilling it. “Connor, what the hell are you doing?” The warm scent of the man’s arousal begins to fill the air. Beneath it Connor can hear the man’s heart, frantic and confused.

He doesn’t want to waste time talking, but he has to, or he’ll scare Hank away. It takes far too long for him to find the words, to remember how to form them on his tongue. “I need you. I want you, Hank.”

“What?” Hank asks, his voice confused, worried, as if Connor could be talking to anyone else. “Me? What?”

“Yes, you,” Connor says, shaking his hand free from Hank’s weak grip. He can feel the bulge beneath Hank’s pants, he can smell it as he peels back his shorts and finds the flimsy fabric of his boxers. “I want you right now.”

“Why? This isn’t like you, what’s—”

“Hank,” Connor says, pulling his thoughts together just long enough to focus on the man’s face. “Please. I have always wanted you, but right now I need it. I am experiencing my rut. I want my mate. Please.”

“Your mate?”

He flushes at the slip, heat crawling up his neck and face, but he nods. “My mate. I want my mate. I want you.”

Hank is entirely silent, mouth hanging open, the gap between his front teeth visible. This time, when Connor’s hand finds the opening of his boxers and slips inside, there is no protest, only a sharp intake of breath. The flesh beneath Connor’s hand is warm and soft, but growing thick as he pulls it out.

“You—I’m—your mate?” Hank asks, and Connor feels a flash of worry at the man’s reaction, but it’s pushed aside beneath the tide of his instincts, muddying his thoughts.

“Yes, Hank,” he breathes, leaning his face down by the man’s cock, inhaling the musky scent of arousal, salt, warmth and all of the components that combine to make Hank’s scent. It’s heady and Connor’s slit is on fire, begging to be bred, but his mouth is watering. He doesn’t question the confidence, the instincts that tell him it’s true. “You’re mine.”

“Oh, I’m—I feel the same—”

He licks a stripe up the underside, along the thick vein there, and Hank twitches and gasps.

It feels good to hear him say it, a victory that sends a thrill up his spine, but at the same time, Connor can’t process it properly. “I know,” Connor manages to pull away long enough to say, before diving back down. Circling his fingers around Hank’s cock, just feeling it come to full mast in his hand as his tongue plays around the head. The texture is interesting, spongy, soft but stiff beneath. He wants to explore more, he wants it to be a part of him, and he sucks the glans between his lips, holding it there and listening to Hank sputter and make meaningless noises.

His throat itches to feel it rubbing against it, so he inches down the length, savoring the long stretch of flesh. His jaw opens wider to accommodate, until it aches, and the ache feels good. The taste of him is sweat and bitter precome and skin. He sucks, tongue massaging along the bottom as he pulls up, before sinking down even further.

“Holy fuck. Connor!” Hank’s voice above him is breathless and in awe.

A surge of pride courses through Connor, that he’s making his mate feel this good. He knows he won’t be able to take all of the man in his mouth, there’s too much, but he uses his hand to squeeze and stroke the base as it brushes the back of his throat. It’s so large and hot. He swallows around it reflexively, and Hank curses above him again. He can feel the man’s precome trickling down his throat.

His slit is fully open now, and thick, viscous slick oozes from his hole, meant to ease the underwater coupling of his kind. Even with his natural fluids, Hank’s cock is so big he knows it will be an effort to fit it inside. That their genitals are not entirely compatible. The thought only makes him clench in anticipation, and his own cock begins to slip from its sheath inside his slit. He exhales around Hank as the cool water touches it, shivering. The arm around Hank’s waist squeezes, fingers digging into his shirt.

“What was that? You alright?” Hank asks, and there’s that concern, that worry for Connor that drives his mating instincts wild.

Connor seals his lips around Hank’s cock and bobs his head, pressing the tip against the back of his throat again and again. He nearly chokes, but the noises Hank makes are worth it, rough groans and aborted words. Hands thread through his half-dry hair, just holding him, and the big palms against his scalp makes him chirp and trill.

“Oh shit, fuck,” Hank says, and at the last second Connor pulls away, gills flexing as he pants. Hank’s cock twitches in his hand, swollen and red, wet with Connor’s saliva.

“Hank, get in,” Connor says, breathless.

This time Hank doesn't argue. Connor lets go with an effort, allowing himself to drop back down into the water and feeling the ache in his arms from holding himself up for so long. It was worth it, though, as Hank whips his shirt over his head and stands only long enough to kick his shorts and boxers off.

Connor has a few moments to admire the sight of him fully undressed. Hair brushing Hank’s freckled shoulders, thick chest and strong legs on display. There are a few scars on his body, that Hank had told him the story of as he lounged in the boathouse after dinner one night, from before his retirement. Thick white lines and pock-marks, nothing like the smooth, precise scars of Connor’s abdomen. Gray hair trails from Hank’s belly button to the thatch around his red, dripping cock.

Then Hank plants a hand on the edge of the dock, forgoing the ladder and dropping into the water. Connor follows him beneath the surface. It’s even darker down there, but Connor’s eyes were made for this environment, and he sees Hank clearly, hair a halo around him, powerful arms cutting through the water as he swims back up. Before he can get that far Connor plasters himself against Hank. The man’s arms slowly return the embrace, movements slowed and dream-like.

He feels now, more than ever, the hollowness where Hank’s thoughts should be. The connection every other of Connor’s species can make with their mate, except for Connor and Hank. He wants to press into the man’s mind as he presses into his body. Feel the rough, untethered truth of Hank’s deepest feelings and show Hank his own. How much he wants this and how long he’s wanted it. How happy Hank makes him. How unafraid.

They break the surface, mouths opening against each other. It’s slippery and sloppy. Hank’s wet beard tickles and Connor’s gut twists as Hank sucks his lower lip and nips it.

He needs his mate. He needs his mate right now.

“Okay, okay,” Hank says, as if in answer to his thoughts. Or maybe he spoke aloud. He can’t tell.

All he knows is he feels Hank against the slit in his scales, right beneath his own unsheathed cock, and it needs to be inside him.

“Here?” Hank asks, and Connor nods as fingers find the opening and dip inside. They feel around, bumping the underside of his sheath and making his hips buck. Then they find his hole, the slick seeping out of him, and he trills as one presses inside. “That’s gonna be a tight fit.”

He nods again, pressing his face to Hank’s warm, wet neck, rocking his hips. “Please.”

But Hank continues to tease, moving his finger around inside Connor, exploring the aching heat of him. “Hold on, just for a minute,” Hank says, voice thick, and Connor wants to bite down on his shoulder in frustration. Hank’s finger retreats, and then two begin to push in. Connor’s nails dig into Hank’s back, leaving white marks that bloom red.

The fingers are so thick, stretching him open, yet he knows it won’t compare to what he feels against his scales, hard and insistent and throbbing. Hank is trying not to hurt him, he’s trying to be careful. It’s sweet and thoughtful, and Connor clings to him, moving his hips and tail, pushing the fingers deeper, hurrying Hank as much as he can.

The fingers disappear, and he feels his slit being parted by something bigger.

“Let me know if it hurts, Connor,” Hank says. Connor trills in answer. He doesn’t care how it feels. He wants it. He needs it. “Here, hold on.”

His hand is guided to cool metal and his back comes to rest against something—the ladder. He grips the side of it with one hand, his other arm wrapped around Hank’s neck.

The head pushes into his slit, into his hole, and lightning runs up his spine. It’s exactly what he wants, and he urges Hank on, hand sliding down his chest and around his waist to pull him closer.

His back digs into the rungs as Hank enters him inch by agonizing inch. The stretch of his hole, not made for human genitals, is so painfully sweet. His own neglected cock is fully unsheathed, and it bumps against Hank’s stomach.

“Is that yours?” Hank says, finding it with his hand, brushing it curiously. “It feels weird. Not in a bad way, or anything.” His fists it loosely, ruffling the thin frills along his length, and Connor’s mouth falls open on a moan. Hank’s cock isn’t even in him all the way yet and he feels like he’s going to burst.

“Look at you. You’re beautiful,” Hank mutters, leaning in to kiss his lips. Connor grunts as he takes more of the man. “To think, all this time, I was your mate and I didn’t even know it.” He’s teasing Connor now, the slow slide of his hand against Connor’s cock as he takes his precious time filling him up. “What a way to find out.”

“Please… talk later, Hank…” It’s such an effort to speak. Why won’t the man just—

He arches as the man suddenly pushes all the way in. His tail smacks against Hank’s legs sharply and he freezes, moaning and chirping, so stretched and full.

“We’ll definitely be talking about this later,” Hank says, but even he’s sounding strained now. Connor rolls his hips purposefully, using the ladder as leverage, grinding their pelvises together. “Fuck!”

Hank wraps himself around Connor, finally giving in and moving his hips. The long slide of Hank’s cock as he pulls out has Connor clenching and shuddering. Then he rocks back in, setting a slow but steady pace, and each thrust punches a sound out of Connor. Chirps, trills, a half-formed name.

There’s a hand between them, on his cock, pumping it in time with Hank’s hips. Lips on his open mouth, kissing along his jaw. The water sloshes and frothes around them as they pull apart and come together again.

Even though Hank can’t open his mind, can’t hear his thoughts, Connor projects them as loud and strong as he can, as if it could somehow pierce the barrier of their species. For every kiss against his wet skin, every breathy word from Hank’s mouth, for the slide of their bodies against each other.

For everything Hank has ever done to keep him safe. Since the first time the man hauled him onto his fishing boat, bleeding and nearly unconscious. When Hank dug the tracker from under Connor’s skin and tossed it to the sea. For giving Connor a place to hide, for helping him heal, for bringing him home cooked fish and reading books aloud and teaching him about board games and touching his scars so softly and laying on the edge of the dock just to talk to Connor until he’s too tired to go back to his own bed—for all of it Connor pushes a message against the unbreachable wall.

_ I love you. I love you. I love you I love you I love you i love you i loveyou ilove you iloveyou iloveyouiloveyouiloveyouiloveyou _

He shakes apart with a chirruping cry, clenching, shivering, arching. Hank keeps moving, his cock inside Connor, his hand on Connor’s length, their wet bodies sliding together in the water. It feels so good, it feels right to have his mate here.

The warmth of Hank’s seed fills him as Hank tenses and hugs him tight. Resting his head on the man’s shoulder, Connor rolls his hips lazily, the walls of his slit dragging against Hank.

“Fuck. Connor,” Hank says against him, slowly relaxing. “That was… so amazing…”

“Yes,” Connor says, finding his voice. “It felt very good.”

Hank snorts a laugh. “It felt very good, huh? Thanks for the glowing review.” There’s amusement in his sarcasm, and Connor slaps his side lightly.

Sighing, soft and content, he says, “I know you want to talk, but I don’t want to move yet.” Connor feels so warm and safe in Hank’s arms, the man still inside him. His thoughts are still cloudy, like disturbed silt, but it’s easier now to speak in a language Hank can actually understand.

“Yeah, I guess it can wait a while. Just, I gotta know.” Hank pauses, as if searching for what to say, and Connor tries not to tense in worry. “Did you really mean it? About me being your mate? Or was that all just the horniness of the moment or whatever?” His tone is light, casual, but beneath the feigned calm Connor can hear Hank’s heart pounding away in a scared fervor.

He’s not surprised that his thoughts remain unread, but it makes him sad all the same, that he can’t soothe Hank’s fears with a single connection. Show Hank that there’s no reason to doubt, that Hank shouldn’t worry that Connor’s words were only a product of biological timing.

But, he supposes, that just makes it all the more special that Connor can say it clearly, without doubt, aloud. “I meant it more than you will ever know,” he sighs against Hank’s shoulder. Watching the water shimmer with gentle waves from outside their little haven. “I love you.”

“Oh,” Hank says, sounding both surprised and delighted. “Me too. I love you too, Connor.” A kiss settles on Connor’s neck, and the rhythm of Hank’s heart gentles.

“Good. No more talking now, right?”

“Right,” Hank says, a smile in his voice, and Connor sends his message again. Pressed right against the man, no space for even the water to come between them, he knows this time Hank receives it loud and clear.


End file.
